Empathy
by NotYourTypicalEmily
Summary: Having been through a lot together it's only when they make believe that they're not nations can they really be at ease./othecrappysummary. FrUk. Includes Scotland and Wales


Empathy

Arthur used to look so fragile, his pale face was often flushed in a bashful fashion and he was constantly biting his lip, although he was always stubborn and bad-mouthed, he had a gentle interior. With age and with increasing power he had gotten numb, dangerous. His eyes that had always fascinated his rival were sad with a dangerous flare, his tongue went out to lick at his top lip in a nervous twitch and his expression was unreadable. He had turned into a stranger. Francis knew that he was no longer the scared little bunny he had met all those years ago in a field somewhere, he was a strong, fiercely harsh lion who kept his countless colonies and allies in line by vehement words. He was terrified of him now; he knew that when he first saw the ships sail out, Arthur proudly stood at the helm with a terrifying grin on his face. He never thought, however, that he would hate his petit lapin.

His blood boiled as he stormed into the Englishman's office only to be disappointed when there were two people in the room and neither was the man he needed to confront. One was sat at the head chair, a cigar placed precariously on the edges of his mouth, ginger hair neatly falling in a middle parting and gently brushing a pale face, the other was perched on the desk, dirty blond hair touselled and an expression of sadness on his face as his eyes fell on the Frenchman. He snarled, if he couldn't scream his disgust at Arthur he supposed that these two would have to do instead for they did nothing to prevent the death of the sweet angel whom had burned the previous afternoon. She had a soft spot for the two underdogs of the British nation, she spoke about them to France frequently, proclaiming them to be comedic geniuses without meaning to but still they watched her burn and didn't even attempt to appear solemn

"Where's your brother?" he said trying to prevent a growl emanate from his chest as he shut the door behind him sharply. The taller redhead inhaled from the cigar before putting his two hands together and leaning on the table in a business-like fashion.

"Just sailed out," he replied calmly, knowing that the man opposite would probably explode any minute if a word was said wrong and hoping that he could evade any sort of confrontation. Arthur was putty in the hands of the siren's calls so it wasn't unusual to see his eldest brother taking charge whilst he was absent. Francis raised a brow, an ironic bemused smile on his face as his eyes darted between the two, both of their faces a clear picture of composure. He nodded and walked to the window as he pretended to look outside, not wanting to look at either brother.

"Tell me…" he started, his voice a drawl, "How does it feel to watch an innocent girl burn like she did? To just stand

there and be proud of your country's doing. Please, I implore you, tell me."

He sighed and put out his cigar, predicting that he'd probably be yelling in a matter of moments, "Francis…" he murmured, attempting to reason. He didn't want to be reminded of her, he was much happier to shrug it off and look forward to another day, label her as another human and move on although that was much easier said than done. He was cut off by the blond nations laughter, he shook his head so that his gentle waves danced languidly in a halo around his face.

"And still you continue to act so _understanding_ as if you know how I feel right now. You know how I feel, Scotland? I want to find your brother and burn him like he burnt her, I want to hear him scream out in desperation and genuine fear." The redhead stood, anger now cracking through his mask. Francis was confused, he never felt such loathing towards the English nation, on the contrary, despite their rivalry he always considered them to be close but now that closeness was struck down and snuffed out, all he felt was unadulterated loathing.

"But why am I telling you? You're nothing, not even an independent nation in your own right. You're both just England's little bitches, aren't you?" Scotland glared and opened his mouth to yell back in retort to defend both his own and his country's pride but was cut off by the smaller nation whom had simply been observing get up wordlessly and stare intently at the Frenchman, grinning madly at the other two.

"How is staying in England helping you get over her in any way?" he said, his tone soft and complimenting his melodic accent, "Maybe you should just leave." The calmness in his tone irritated Francis, enraged him even. He glared at him and stalked over, grabbing the small nation by the front of his shirt and pulling him up so that he could look him in the eyes. He made no noise of protest, showed no fear. The only thing in those eyes that was so damn identical to the dangerous Englishman's who was presently at sea was sympathy that France neither needed or wanted. Francis was vaguely aware of the redhead yelling at him to get off his younger brother but paid no attention,

"Don't pretend to know what I want!" he screamed, "You would have stopped him if you knew, you have saved her. She always spoke about both of you so fondly when I visited her in that damn cell of hers and you both just stood and watched while she _burned_."

Scotland had managed to pull the Frenchman off his brother, Wales stood still, only moving to adjust his shirt slightly. The redhead threw Francis halfway across the room so that he hit the floor in an undignified manner,

"Be thankful you got to visit her, ungrateful frog," he whispered icily, "If Arthur had his way the only time you would have seen her would be when she burnt," he paused as Francis grabbed on the edge of the desk and tried to hoist himself up, "You shouldn't have been so foolish. Humans are weak, fragile. You should never have fallen for a human."

Wales sighed and held out a hand for the Frenchman whom, obviously, declined it profusely. He kneeled so that he could look the broken nation in the face as he spoke,

"Don't hate Arthur," he murmured, "Hate England and what it's done to him. We were all fond of that little girl, she was endearing and passionate about her nation, she loved you so much Francis but no matter how we dress it up with cliché terms, she's dead and gone. Even if she hadn't been burnt, she would have died in years to come." He got up, his words turned cold again as he walked away to stand next to his elder brother,

"Remember that before you speak about my brothers like that again," he continued, "Or burn in your own self-pity, be an undignified, pathetic idiot that Jeanne would have hated."

...

Arthur used to look so strong, his eyes glared with dangerous infatuation for the sea and for power, his tongue would go out and lick at his lips in a twitch because he really believed he had seen everything to be afraid of and was weary of the world's cruelties. Now he was fragile, his fascinating eyes possessed nothing but sorrow and his milky complexion had turned sickly pale, his face was drawn with sadness. Francis sighed, never had he thought that he'd miss the dangerous Arthur and to know that he played part in creating that sadness made his chest tighten.

"Fuck!" Scotland yelled, looking inside worriedly and then wiping his brow in a relieved manner, "Okay he's in bed. What do you want, France?"

"May I come in?" he murmured, cutting to the chase. He needed to see Arthur, he wanted to make sure the younger was at least not doing something idiotic, he knew better than to wish that the younger was doing well, his little brother had meant everything to Arthur, he was his pride and joy, but now he was all grown up and there was nothing the Brit could do about it. The redhead looked inside again before reluctantly opening the door wider for the other to come in. Francis had not seen him for years, not since he had gone to start a fight over the memory of his deceased love. He almost flinched at the memory, now he had hurt Arthur as much as he was hurt in the past when his Jeanne had been cruelly stole from him, however, he was embarrassed when he thought of how he acted towards the two other British brothers. Scotland pulled out a cigar from a packet before producing a lighter as if from nowhere, lighting it up and taking in a deep puff as if relieving himself of some unspoken stress.

"He's really cut up you know," he murmured, his tone almost casual, "Never thought the little tike'd leave him, see and the fact you helped probably didn't do him any good either." He shook his head an gave a crooked little smile before leaning back on a wall, his arms crossed firmly across his chest, "It's been really quiet, it's a bit unnerving really."

He shuffled uncomfortably knowing fully well that Arthur was probably upstairs right at that moment drowning his sorrows and talking everything over with those 'friends' of his, trying desperately to numb himself so the fact he had been left didn't hurt as much.

"I want to speak to Arthur," Francis said finally, causing the older nation opposite to shake his head and start laughing, "You're not serious are you? I don't think your really high up on his list of people he'd like to speak to at the moment, funnily enough but hey, stick around, we're drinking later." He shook his head again, an amused smile perched on his lips as sarcasm echoed vibrantly in each of his words, granted, he and his youngest brother had never really seen eye to eye but he sure as hell wasn't as cruel to send up the man whom had just helped destroy Arthur's reason for being at that present moment. Steps echoed from the stairs and Wales' head came into view, at first he smiled but then, as if remembering something, groaned and looked up the stairs.

"He said he though he heard your er… 'stupid rapey frog voice,' what are you doing here? Took me bloody ages to calm him down and get him to go back to sleep, you know. He was proper panicking, probably thought you were going to steal me or Scotland from him next," he chucked a bit before raking a hand through his distressed locks, "What are you after then?"

"I want to talk to Arthur," Francis repeated causing the other to sigh sadly and murmur,

"He's not ready to talk to anyone yet." It was obvious that Wales had been trying to no avail to get Arthur back to his arrogant self, he looked over at Scotland who rolled his eyes but took an anxious puff on his cigar as if masking his own stress.

"Just let me talk to him," he continued indignantly, "I need to apologise."

The Welshman shook his head and Scotland sighed knowing that it was time to intervene, "It's not going to change anything… Look, maybe you should go Francis." The Scot paused, "And…And tell America not to come either, okay? He just needs to be alone. He's never been the hardest really."

...

Arthur had always looked perfect. Whether he was strong or weak, he always had those eyes that would stop a man or woman in their tracks and just stare, he spoke stubbornly but eloquently and got passionate when someone mentioned something of his interest. Francis watched him now as he slept, his chest heaving slightly and his heavy brow furrowed as he appeared to be fascinated with whatever type of dream he was having. They had proclaimed different emotions throughout the years, they had screamed at each other with all their hate yelling out how much they despised the other, they had held each other in a mutual truce of unspoken companionship, their relationship had never been simple nor easy, it was always tainted by world affairs, duties and other nations. His hand went out now and brushed the short choppy locks out of the others face and sat up slightly, chuckling as the other twitched dozily in his sleep. Now world affairs, duties and other nations didn't matter, nothing did because for just this short moment they were no longer France and England, they were Francis and Arthur, two human beings free to do as they pleased and what they wanted was to be close to each other without any fickle interference. The smaller's eyes fluttered before snapping open, at first his expression was pure shock but he settled back down, burrowing his head in the crook of the other's neck, his heavy brow furrowed insolently.

"Hello Sleeping Beauty," Francis murmured huskily causing the other to meekly punch at his chest,

"Shut up frog and put a bloody top on," he retorted drowsily, his eyelashes brushing the bare skin of the other's neck, his companion snorted and snaked his arm around the other's waist before pulling them both upright.

"What's the time?" Arthur murmured, pulling away to rub at his eyes sleepily,

"Three."

"In the afternoon? Why didn't you wake me?"

"In the morning, mon cher," Arthur's eyes widened,

"Bloody hell, s'why I'm still tired I suppose," he ran a hand through his messy hair, "Why weren't you sleeping, frog? It's late, you should get some sleep."

"I barely had a chance, Arthur," Francis chuckled, "You only got to sleep half an hour ago and you looked so distressed I wanted to make sure you were okay."

"I've just been stressed what with the economy at mine at the mo-"

"Shush," murmured the Frenchman, pulling the other close again, "You'll spoil it."

Arthur's eyes lidded as he let his head fall on the other's shoulder again, understanding. It was rare moments like these that made the stress of being a nation seem worth it all. Every blow and all the pain the other caused him had melted and the past was no longer an issue. For he was with Francis and Francis was with Arthur and they could both empathise with each other flawlessly.

"If you mention this to anyone…" Arthur began, his companion laughed and stroked the other's choppy locks tentatively.

"What? Tell them that the Great British Empire really enjoys cuddles?"

"Exactly."

"I wouldn't dare, mon cher."


End file.
